


Man Out of His Time

by ConsultingPurplePants



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blowjobs, M/M, PWP, kind of, post-tab, this is why the camera had to pan out at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 11:10:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5741551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingPurplePants/pseuds/ConsultingPurplePants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even after the falls, Sherlock isn't sure if John reciprocates his feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Man Out of His Time

**Author's Note:**

> In order to distract myself from my WIP, here's smut

“Don’t think _I_ would be,” says Watson from behind him, and Holmes feels like this sentiment must absolutely be corrected. However, despite Watson’s earlier admission at the falls, he knows he must tread carefully.

“I beg to differ,” he responds cautiously. He turns to the window, hoping to avoid seeing Watson’s expression of disgust as he voices his next words. “But then I’ve always known I was a man out of his time.”

There’s a beat where both of them are silent, the only sound in the room the clicking of Watson’s teeth on his pipe. Holmes closes his eyes, waiting for the inevitable to occur. 

“Holmes, look at me,” says Watson. Holmes cannot bring himself to turn around, one fist slowly starting to clench in his dressing gown. 

Watson’s tone sharpens. “Holmes.” 

For a moment, he fears his dressing gown may well tear beneath his fingers. 

“Sherlock, turn around. Please.” 

Holmes breathes in sharply. He flexes his fingers as he turns around to face Watson. 

Watson smiles. “I already told you I wouldn’t be surprised, Sherlock.”

He has never heard his given name spoken like it was something precious before. The way the syllables roll off Watson’s tongue and sweep over him like a warm, calming wave, is like nothing he has ever felt. He looks down at Watson, still sitting in his armchair calmly smoking his pipe, looking for all the world as though he hasn’t just uttered the most momentous sentence the universe has ever heard, and feels his heart twist in his chest. He opens his mouth to try to voice all of this, but the only word that emerges is, “John.” 

John smiles softly up at him before putting down his pipe and rising to face Sherlock. “Yes, love?” 

Sherlock is kissing him before he’s even realized he’s doing it. John’s moustache gently tickles his upper lip as they press themselves to each other, trying to pull each other impossibly closer. Sherlock’s fists grab fistfuls of John’s jacket before John pulls away and tears it off himself, Sherlock’s waistcoat getting sacrificed in the process. Then John’s hands are on him, and John’s tongue is plundering his mouth as his blood sings in his veins. John swallows his moans, then pulls his mouth away so that he can more easily suck on Sherlock’s pulse point. Sherlock whimpers as he feels his knees going weak, his entire consciousness reduced to the hard suction smoothed over by a soft tongue, his neck rubbed raw by John’s moustache. He frantically clutches at John’s shoulders, trying to stabilize himself, until John gives him one more teasing bite and pulls away again, looking up into Sherlock’s face. 

He takes one of Sherlock’s sleeves in his hands. “Is this all right?” 

When Sherlock nods, too breathless to properly voice his assent, John starts to unbutton his shirt cuffs one at a time before reaching up to remove his collar. The shirt slips from Sherlock’s shoulders to pool on the floor, and Sherlock shivers for a moment under John’s searching gaze. After what feels like an age, John looks up at him and smiles. 

“You’re beautiful, Sherlock,” he says, his voice cracking on _Sherlock_. He pulls Sherlock close again and starts kissing his chest, giving him gentle pecks all over until his mouth closes on a nipple. There must be a direct line from it to his cock, because Sherlock feels such a surge of lust bolt through him that he collapses back in his armchair, legs completely unable to hold him up. John follows him down, still licking at sucking at his nipple, and Sherlock moans aloud when he gives it a delicate nip with his teeth. He manages to weakly reach up towards John’s own shirt cuffs. 

Thankfully John, wonderful John, sees where his useless hands are headed and starts undoing the cuffs himself, slipping off his own collar before letting his shirt fall next to Sherlock’s. Sherlock looks up in awe at the starburst of scar tissue on his left shoulder, the skin puckered and marked beyond repair, but somehow still beautiful. Beautiful because it’s a part of John, a part of the man he loves, but also because it is what brought John to him. Without it, they never would have met, and then where would he be? He reaches up and gently runs his hand across the desensitized tissue, and John sighs in relief. 

“People are usually rather… uncomfortable about the scar,” he explains before reaching up and taking Sherlock’s hand in his own, pressing their joined hands to it. 

He leans down and kisses Sherlock again, waiting until Sherlock moans quietly into his mouth before directing his attentions to Sherlock’s neglected nipple. The instant his tongue touches it, Sherlock arches out of the chair, panting. 

“John!” he cries. John is ruthless, reaching up to pinch one nipple while he swirls his tongue and teeth around the other. Sherlock’s cock is pressed tightly up against his flies, and every movement provides enough friction to push him closer and closer to the edge. When John presses his hand to the bulge in Sherlock’s trousers, he gasps sharply and looks up at him. Sherlock convinces his head to give a shaky nod, and then John’s hands are unbuttoning his flies and pulling his drawers down to expose his erect, leaking cock. Sherlock only has a moment to whimper at the loss of John’s tongue against his nipple before he feels it at the tip of his cock. He groans at the sensation, sinking lower into his chair.

John gives him a predatory grin before sliding to his knees and tonguing hard at the slit, making Sherlock’s fingers scrabble at the arms of the chair, frantic for a good grip. John takes Sherlock’s cock in his hand and holds it steady before sliding his mouth down over the whole of it. Sherlock shouts, feeling warm, wet heat all around him as John’s head starts bobbing up and down. Every time he reaches the top of his cock, John lets his tongue slip into Sherlock’s slit, licking up his precome before sliding his mouth all the way back down again. Before long, Sherlock is hysterically panting at the ceiling, trying as hard as he can not to grab onto John’s hair or thrust into his mouth. As though sensing this, John takes one of Sherlock’s hands and places it on the back of his head before resuming his ministrations, and it nearly ends right then and there. Sherlock gives a loud moan, momentarily losing control of his hips before John pushes them back down, humming around Sherlock’s cock so that the vibrations go straight to his core. 

Then John reaches into Sherlock’s drawers and presses a knuckle against his perineum, and Sherlock gives a cut-off cry of, “John—!” He feels every single muscle contract as he arches off his armchair, mouth open in a silent scream as he pulses into John’s mouth. John continues sucking through the aftershocks, wringing the pleasure from Sherlock’s body with his tongue. When it’s over, Sherlock collapses back into his armchair, boneless. 

John frantically unbuttons his own trousers and pulls out his cock, so hard the foreskin has already retracted and his drawers have a large wet spot on the front of them. Even in this state, Sherlock can see what he wants, and the thought of it makes his spent cock give a hopeful twitch. 

“John, do it, please, do it—,” he manages to push out past the new cloud of lust in his senses, and then John is stroking himself faster and faster until his come lands in spatters on Sherlock’s chest, dripping down into his trousers. Sherlock moans as each pulse reaches its mark.   
Finally, John collapses onto Sherlock in the too-small armchair, panting and spent. 

“I’ve loved you for fourteen years, Sherlock, and I always will. And _that_ is why I wouldn’t be surprised.”


End file.
